


I Wanna Be Yours

by lazorjam



Series: The Milex Anthology [6]
Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, HIV/AIDS, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-23 01:06:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15594843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazorjam/pseuds/lazorjam
Summary: Years of nightly meetings are more than enough for Miles; they cannot risk being caught and outed any more than another gay man in Sheffield could be. But Miles never counts on losing Alex.





	I Wanna Be Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Read this whilst listening to I Wanna Be Yours.

It always starts the same, Miles listening to the crackle of the Fleetwood Mac vinyl on his record player whilst staring at himself in the mirror. He analyses everything about himself until there is nothing else to critique and he knows Alex will already be waiting.

He creeps down the stairs, not to disturb his parents as they listen to the radio in the lounge, and steps out into the dark night. Alex is there, at the lamppost at the end of the street, with a cigarette already lit and that look in his eyes. Miles’ knees buckle at the sight everytime.

They walk side by side, knuckles brushing as a reminder that once they were alone, out of harm's way, they could touch each other. That they could feel each other and be the men they were deep inside. Alex always bought the first two drinks and Miles tended to buy the second, third, perhaps fourth, pair. Between sips of larger they watched the bands playing on the pathetically small stage at the front of the bar. Occasionally they sit in a booth at the back of the bar, but most nights they stand side by side among the crowds, simply observing.

Miles gets keen sometimes, fingers linking with the elder lad’s as conversation stutters to a stop, but Alex always reminds him of where they are and their hands are back to their trouser pockets. It’s hard for Miles to watch the people slow dancing around them, so clearly in love with each other and able to show it without the fear of being murdered for who they are. He looks to Alex and, sometimes, Alex is already looking back at him. 

Every night the bar shuts at eleven and they leave together, walking towards Alex’s flat in silence. Their intentions never change and they both know it without having to utter a word to each other. Alex’s flat is always warm and always smells like home. Miles spends enough time in the third floor apartment to know every inch of it like the back of his own hand. Alex always makes them tea and Miles selects the record they plan on listening to whilst making love. It’s often Bowie or Queen, though when Miles’ mood dips to something darker The Queen Is Dead is gently placed under the needle.

The sex is always slow, always with such passion Miles wants to cry at the thought of having to let Alex go. Porcelain skin glimmering with sweat and hair askew, he knows no one will ever compare to his Alex.

They smoke after, sat on the windowsill no matter the weather, in their tiny heaven on St James’ Street. Miles never wants to leave, because he knows one day it will be the last time he sees Alex. He dreads the day and grabs onto every memory with a vice grip.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Alex whispers when they part ways at the crossroads. A handshake is all they can risk, and Miles walks away. He sneaks back inside, closing the door without a sound, and makes his way back up to bed. Most days he realises he’d forgotten to lift the needle on his record and the hum on static is the first thing to greet him as he strips and puts on his nightshirt. 

Miles knows that one day, Alex will be gone, and he hates it.

Alex leaves him a note in the pocket of his shirt every time they meet and Miles keeps them in a box on his nightstand. Some are poems, others nothing more than doodles, but the final note encompasses every feeling Alex has ever felt towards Miles.

_ I Wanna Be Yours.  _

Miles keeps it in his palm as he sits at the back of the church. Alex’s mother cries more than anyone, and Miles tries to stay strong. Alex wouldn’t have wanted him to cry but the tears are almost unstoppable when the vicar reads the poem Alex had written. Miles knows it was for him, he can remember Alex whispering the verses to him on the windowsill. Miles wondered if he would ever forget the softness of Alex whispering  _ I wanna be yours  _ to him, much in the same way he wonders if he would forget what it felt like to kiss him, to hold him, his woody musk, the way the sun illuminated his skin as they walked through High Green together on warm evenings. 

He leaves before they pull the curtains around his coffin because he knows it would have been too much.

He doesn’t hear Penny follow him, and only realises he has company when she is lingering at his side as he smokes. He doesn’t know what to say to her, and neither does she. They just smile, and Miles knows that’s enough.

He doesn’t want to go to the wake but Alex had told him he wanted him there more than any friend or relative he had. So he sits in the corner drinking and watching as people chat around him. A man approaches, in a similar black shirt and black trouser combination, and sits beside Miles.

“Terrible thing, AIDS.” He says, and Miles almosts laughs in his face. “Poor lad was only 25, whole life ahead of him.” Miles wants to turn around and hit him, tell him that he is the last person he needs to be saying that too. Instead he downs the rest of his pint and places it on the linoleum floor of the hall. “Were you close?”

“Not overly.” Miles hates lying as much as he hates Thatcher and as much as he hates AIDS, but he knows it’s the right thing to do. He excuses himself and flees, not looking back until he’s at the end of the path leading to the hall. Penny is watching on from the bench by the door, but he can bring himself to do nothing but smile and walk home.

His parents are sat in the living room when he arrives home, but the radio is not streaming The Archers like it always did. He felt the silence in the very core of his soul, and approached the living room doorway in silence. His mother is crying, his father staring at the coffee table. It is then Miles realises, and he mercilessly enters the room and looks at the love notes coating the table. None of them speak, and Miles is suffocating under the fear that’s pressing down on him. When neither of his parents make a move, he begins to collect the pieces of paper and slips them back into their little metal box. 

“I’ll be gone by six.” Is all he manages, shutting the door behind him as he leaves the living room and then retires to his bedroom. His records are stuffed into his duffle and clothes soon join them, the box last to go into his bag. Not another word is spoken when he leaves in silence at half past five, and he finds himself walking the streets he and Alex paced many times. The bar is empty and he sits in their back booth, head falling to his palms as he weeps. Nobody bothers him, and he leaves at eleven as normal, only more alone and lifeless then when he arrived. 

Alex’s grave is tucked away, positioned under a willow tree that gave it the perfect amount of shade. Miles lays beside the broken grass, looking at the stars as they poke from between the willow branches, and for the first time that day he feels safe. He talks to Alex, telling him how much he already misses his smile and his laugh, how he longs to be by his side again and how he knows it will be faster than they both expect. 

Miles falls asleep at some point in the morning and, in a strange twist of fate, his words to Alex are more true than they first seemed.

“Natural causes,” The doctor says, sat in the Kane’s living room with a police officer at his side. Of course both his parents are crying this time. “Your son had been battling AIDs related illnesses since the beginning of the year. He was peaceful, he laid at the grave of a dear friend.” Dr Helders had looked after the two men since their diagnosis months before, and felt numbed by the loss of yet another young life at the hands of the seemingly uncontrollable disease. He leaves the Kane family to mourn the loss of their only son, and returns to the hospital whilst listening to the radio. There Is A Light On That Never Goes Out plays, and it feels strangely bittersweet.


End file.
